I can’t remember when I last acquired
a postage stamp. I used the Pitney Bowes
the office leased, but now I’m near-retired,
and rarely am I where the red ink flows.

I paid my tax on property within
the deadline, and I toted it to work.
Returning home, I found to my chagrin
my check unmailed. “Oh fuck. I’m such a jerk,”
I blurted to myself. “I’ll have to buy
a stamp and find a mail chute within days.
December mobs the post office indeed;
convenience stores don’t keep a stamp supply.”

I wracked my brain in contemplating ways,
and then my grownup son addressed my need.